The Battle for Duncragglin

by Andrew H. Vanderwal

  Once again, Alex and Craig found themselves in dense forest, running to keep up with Sir Ellerslie as he slipped soundlessly through the woods ahead.

  Craig had trouble keeping up. Alex, too, was getting tired. He was also hungry and thirsty. They had not eaten since before they left Annie, and that felt like a very long time ago.

  Thinking about Annie all alone in the underground chambers gave Alex an ache of fear. He tried to reassure himself by remembering how resourceful and organized she was and how she could follow the string back the way they came – but it didn't work. All sorts of things could have gone wrong for her … terribly wrong.

  They crested a hill and spotted a clear blue loch tucked snugly in the surrounding hills.

  Craig stopped dead.

  “What now?” Alex asked.

  “That's … that's our loch, Loch Karins.” Craig's hand trembled as he pointed. “But there's no farm … and all these trees …”

  Alex had to admit, the loch did look a lot like the one next to the McRaes' farm. Lochs kind of look alike, he thought.

  Craig, however, could not be shaken. “It's the same,” he mumbled. “Every rock …”

  “These trees can't have grown overnight.” Alex impatiently tugged on Craig's arm. “Quickly now, we need to catch up.”

  Sir Ellerslie held up a hand for them to stop and be silent. He stood listening carefully and hooted softly three times. With a chill, Alex saw archers materialize on all sides, their taut longbows pointing straight at them. Alex slowly dropped the stick he was carrying.

  Sir Ellerslie stared directly into the archers' arrows with no sign of alarm. “I hate haggis,” he announced.

  “That'll be the password.” A bowman signaled for the others to lower their bows.

  “Why, look, it's Sir Ellerslie!” exclaimed another. “It's about time ye made it back. We'd almost given ye up for dead.”

  One bowman kept his bow up. He scowled from behind his stringy, dirty-blond hair. “Who be these charges?” he demanded. “Have ye taken hostages?”

  Sir Ellerslie laughed. “Dinnae be daft, Rorie. These lads are from the McRae and Macpherson clans. I found them on the other side of the forest, looking for lost parents. Had I been a few seconds later, robbers would've left 'm for the crows.”

  The first bowman walked slowly around the boys. He stroked his pointy beard, examining them with great interest. Grasping the collar of Alex's shirt between his fingers, he leaned in closely. “The McRaes and the Macphersons must be doing very well to garb their young ones so. Have ye taken a look at the stitching in their fabric? I've never seen anything like it – so small and so perfect.”

  “Aye, Malcolm, it's strange,” Sir Ellerslie admitted. “Their speech is peculiar too.”

  “These clans must be in with the English.” Rorie pulled his bow back to full extension. “We cannae take chances.”

  Sir Ellerslie moved in front of the boys. “These lads are under my protection,” he stated flatly. “And you are to put your bow down.”

  “But, they could be spies,” Rorie persisted.

  “I know they are not.” Sir Ellerslie's eyes narrowed. “And that should be good enough for ye, Rorie.”

  Malcolm stepped between them and brushed aside Rorie's bow. “Let us be more courteous to these lads,” he said lightly.

  “I do believe that the McRae and Macpherson clans are on the right side of this conflict, but we can hardly expect them to come to our assistance if we mistreat some of their own.”

  “Aye, and Groenie will be glad of the help that these lads can provide.” Considering the matter settled, Sir Ellerslie put a friendly hand on Malcolm's shoulder and turned his back to Rorie. “Good to see you, old friend. Come, let's get back to camp. I've a lot to tell Wallace.”

  The bowmen accompanied them through the forest. They passed close by the small loch, and Alex found himself picturing where Mr. McRae's farmhouse would be.

  “Just over that ridge is a hollow,” Craig said. “My guess is, that's where they've set up camp.”

  Alex gave Craig a skeptical glance. He could barely see that there was a ridge up ahead through the trees, much less a hollow somewhere past it.

  “You'll see. We get to it through the split rock.”

  Alex was worried. It had been a difficult day (to say the least) and Craig seemed to be cracking under the strain. They appeared to be on a movie set for Robin Hood. Perhaps the actors were just practicing their roles. If so, Alex was not amused. He resolved to get away from these strange people at the earliest opportunity and to set out in the direction of the sea. Surely he would come upon a road. He remembered that the coastal road from the airport to the McRaes' farm had yellow emergency telephones every mile or so. He needed to reach one and call the police….

  “There.” Craig had a look of triumph. “Do you believe me now?”

  Alex stared in amazement. Up ahead, there was indeed a split rock – a very big split rock. It looked as if the hill itself had been cracked open. They followed a path between the towering jagged halves. Alex looked up and spotted more bowmen on either side.

  “I hate haggis!” Malcolm bellowed. The guards lowered their bows.

  The passageway opened into a small hidden dale, much as Craig had described. A central clearing contained many tents and bustled with more movie-set material. Target practice was taking place on one side, with archers firing at straw men. On the other, men clashed in mock fights with wooden staffs. Everyone was wearing long pullovers of some scratchy material bound up by a sword-belt. There were no jeans or T-shirts in sight.

  A surprisingly tall, broad-shouldered man threw back the flap of one of the bigger tents and strode forward to greet them. He had a keen and commanding air.

  “Sir Ellerslie! Welcome!” The big man extended a large hand. “What word have ye from the outlying areas?”

  “The Foster and the McLeod clans to the west stand ready to join ye, Wallace,” Sir Ellerslie replied. “I've yet to reach the McRae and Macpherson clans to the north, but suggest we do so now and ask whether they be prepared to send their men-in-arms. We can also tell them that two of their young sons are safe with us, although we know not the fate of the parents they seek.”

  Wallace turned to Alex and Craig. “I am sorry to hear that y'r parents are missing,” he said. “If Hesselrigge is behind this, we will either have 'm freed or have their vengeance, for Hesselrigge's days are numbered.”

  “If I may, sir,” Alex began hesitantly. With this meeting, the events of the past day came sharply into focus, leading him to an impossible-but-inescapable conclusion. “But would you be Sir William Wallace?”

  “I'm no Sir William, but Wallace I am, in person.” He gave Alex a friendly mock bow.

  “Can you please tell me what year this is?” Alex asked.

  “What an odd question. Why, it is the year of our Lord 1296, of course. Why do ye ask?”

  “Because, sir,” Alex replied slowly, thinking carefully of what he had read, “I want to know if your greatest victories are still to come, or if they are behind you.”

  “And tell me, young lad,” Wallace said, “what are my great victories?”

  Alex flushed. “I do not know them all, sir, but I know there are many.” He paused, not sure where to begin. “There's the defeat of the English at a narrow bridge – half of the English army crosses and your men charge over a hill and catch them by surprise.”

  “What a tremendously good idea! I know just the bridge to try that, should the English be foolish enough to cross it.” Wallace laughed. “And when all is said and done, who rules Scotland?”

  “The Scots, sir, but not before –” Alex stopped abruptly, his face turning red.

  “Before what?” Wallace demanded.

  Alex tried to speak, but his throat was too tight. Stuck in his mind was the awful image from his comic book of Wallace being executed and butchered by the English. He shook his head.

  “That bad, is it?” Wallace said griml
y. He straightened, reached over his shoulder, and drew a huge sword from the scabbard across his back, giving Alex a terrible fright.

  “Ye heard the lad,” he roared, holding his great sword high. “Scotland will be ruled by Scots. For liberty!”

  Metal flashed as everyone around them drew their swords and raised them high. “For liberty!” they cried out.

  “To victory!” Wallace bellowed, thrusting his sword higher still.

  “To victory!” the men roared in reply.

  “Come.” Wallace slid his sword back into its scabbard and placed his arm around Sir Ellerslie's shoulders. “Let us plan for war.”

  9

  CAPTIVES OF A REBEL CAMP

  “Take 'm to the hold,” Rorie demanded.

  A guard stepped forward, but Malcolm blocked his way. “There's no need for that,” he snapped. “Ellerslie has vouched for these lads and said they'll be put to good use.”

  A short, stout man with a large apron wrapped around his sizeable middle raised his hand. “I could use some help.”

  “Well, then, Groenie, these lads are your new assistants.” Malcolm clapped both Alex and Craig on the shoulder. “Treat 'm well, and may they last longer than the other assistant we gave ye.”

  Groenie scowled. “It was no my fault Sandy cut off his thumb.”

  “Give 'm some dinner, for starters, and make 'm a bed. They've had a long hard day. In the morn, they'll be ready to assist ye with your tasks.”

  Malcolm leaned in. “Groenie is our cook,” he said to Alex and Craig in a low voice. “He'll make sure you're not idle during y'r stay with us, but do keep out of his way, especially when he gets in a temper – and do be careful with the knife.” Malcolm laughed and shoved them toward Groenie. “We don't need extra bits in our stew.”

  Still scowling, Groenie led them around the far side of the tent. Staked and roped poles held up a long canvas awning that sheltered benches and tables. They passed a partly butchered deer. Its head hung limply over the edge of a table, a bucket catching the blood that dribbled from a wide slice across its neck.

  Groenie thrust bowls into their hands. Then he plunged a ladle into a large cauldron, which hung suspended from a tripod of poles lashed over a small fire, and poured some strong-smelling brown stew into their bowls. Grunting for them to sit, he tossed them each a piece of crusty bread ripped from a large loaf.

  Under normal circumstances, Alex would never have eaten such a foul-smelling stew, not even were he under the wrathful glare of his uncle. However, he was ravenous, and he knew his chances of getting anything else to eat were zero-to-none. He raised a spoonful and sniffed it cautiously. Alex knew that the gristly chunks were animal bits, but could not tell which parts of the animal they came from. He wondered numbly if Sandy's thumb was in the pot.

  “Offal,” Alex mumbled.

  “You're right.” Craig gave an extraloud slurp. “Awful good.”

  “No, offal. That means parts of an animal other than meat; you know, like the brain or something … oh, forget it.” Craig was too busy slurping to listen.

  Hunger got the better of Alex – he took in a small spoonful. It was chewy and tangy, but not too bad. He tried another.

  Before he knew it, both he and Craig were looking down at empty bowls. Still hungry, he glanced over at the cauldron, then at Groenie, who was busy chopping greens. With some trepidation, Alex got up, bowl in hand, and approached Groenie. He was acutely aware of what happened to the Oliver Twist of his comic book when he was in this situation.

  “Please, sir, can I have some more?” Alex asked timidly.

  Groenie swung up his cutting knife. “How dare ye! That stew has to feed a whole army, and none of the men ever ask for more.”

  Dejected, Alex slumped back down.

  “Alright, alright, here ye go, then.” Groenie roughly slopped another ladleful into their bowls. “Just this once.” He held up a hand. “Dinnae thank me, I'm going to make ye work double hard for it. See all them buckets? When ye are done stuffing y'r greedy guts, ye can each use a yoke to carry two at a time to fill 'm down by the loch.”

  Alex glanced at the buckets. He could do that.

  For now, the only sounds were the distant voices of the men, the occasional snort from a faraway horse, the chopping and scraping of Groenie's knife on the cutting block, and the puffing and slurping of Alex and Craig cooling and eating their stew.

  Craig looked up from his bowl. “What's William Wallace doing here? Didn't he live long ago?”

  “Don't you get it?” Alex wiped his mouth, his hunger finally satisfied enough to talk between sips. “That chamber we were in, the one you thought was a spaceship launcher, it teleported us back in time over seven hundred years.”

  “So, we're not even born yet?”

  “Of course we're born – we're here, aren't we?”

  They mulled this over in silence. Craig picked a gristly bit out of his mouth and laid it carefully next to his bowl. “I wonder if my mum or your parents are here.”

  “Who knows?” Alex sighed. He was tired of trying to make sense of it all. Even if his parents were here, how would he find them? What if they were teleported back even further and were really old now? How would he recognize them? The effort to think through these questions made his head hurt. It occurred to him that they might never find a way to get back to their own time … that he and Craig might become two more missing persons, never to be heard from again….

  “Water! Now!” Groenie punctuated every word with a stab of his knife.

  Alex felt a surge of anger. He considered refusing, but because Groenie'd given them the extra bowl of stew, he stumbled to his feet.

  The meal had made him feel sleepy. He wanted to curl up somewhere, just about anywhere, tuck a blanket under his chin, and fall asleep. He forced himself to investigate the yoke. It was no more than a long stick with hooks on either end. There was a flat section in the middle to rest across his shoulders.

  The boys headed for the loch, empty buckets swinging from their yokes, and approached the split rock. Abruptly, two burly guards stepped forward, barring the path with their spears. “Halt! Where do ye think ye're going?”

  “We're off to get water.” Alex thought this must be obvious, seeing how they were carrying empty buckets, but the guards did not move. “Groenie sent us,” he added.

  One of the guards hesitated. He jerked his head in the direction of the path and lifted his spear out of the way. “Off ye go, then.”

  The other guard protested. “Rorie said no one was to leave camp. No exceptions is what he said.”

  “Dinnae be daft. Groenie needs water to cook. D'ye want a meal at the end of the day or no? Besides, he'll cut off their thumbs if they come back empty-handed.”

  “Aye, true.” The guard chuckled. “We don't want any more of 'm in our stew.”

  “Keep an eye out for any scouts Hesselrigge may have running about,” said the first guard. “If ye're no back in ten minutes, we'll send some men out to look for ye.”

  The other guard laughed. “To look for what's left of 'm, ye mean to say.”

  Alex spotted more guards high up on the rocks overlooking the trail. He felt their watchful eyes following them as they passed. Well along the path, Craig stopped and pointed into the woods. “Let's take a shortcut – the loch is just over that rise.”

  Trudging through the dense forest, Alex tried to keep his buckets from banging against trees. The noise made him nervous. He recalled his encounter with the thieves all too well.

  Once over the rise, sure enough, the loch came into view. The late-afternoon sun flashed off windblown ripples. They came to the water's edge at a rocky section, where they could lower and fill their buckets without getting their feet wet.

  “My favorite hiding place is around that bend.” Craig nodded towards a steep embankment. “Let's check it out before we head back.”

  Stepping-stones in the water allowed them to follow the shoreline past the embankment. About to rou
nd the bend, Craig stopped and pulled back abruptly.

  Alex bumped into him, waving his arms to keep from slipping into the water. “Watch it, will you?”

  “Shh! There are people over there.”

  “People? What do they look like?”

  “Soldiers. They're wearing armor and they have swords and shields.”

  “Let me see.” Alex squeezed past Craig and peered around the embankment. Horses were grazing on clumps of grass at the water's edge. Several soldiers sat with their backs against the trees, watching over them. From behind the tree line came flashes of sun reflecting off metal. Men were moving about within the forest.

  Alex's eyes fixed on one person – a man who wore a red-dyed deerskin jacket. The man turned and stared, as if aware of being watched.

  Fearing he was spotted, Alex scrambled back quickly, leaping from stone to stone.

  “What about the buckets?” Craig called.

  “Forget about them. Run!” Alex said, heart pounding.

  Alex and Craig sprinted back up the trail. They knew the guards would be watching from high up on the rocks. Sure enough, they stood with their bows drawn.

  “I hate haggis,” Alex gasped without slowing down.

  Panting heavily, they ran up to the tent where they had last seen Wallace and Sir Ellerslie. They tried to rush past a guard at the entrance, but the guard grabbed them roughly by the arms and held them back.

  “Into the hold with 'm!” he roared.

  Two other guards rushed forward and seized the boys.

  “Sir Ellerslie!” Alex shouted. “Help!”

  A cuff to the side of his head cut him off. Before he could get a breath to yell again, a gloved hand roughly covered his mouth and turned his head about.

  “Be still, or I will have ye gagged,” the guard hissed.

  “But we saw soldiers, down by –” Alex's protests were cut off by another blow to the head. Numb and confused, he allowed himself to be marched away. They came to the far side of the sprawling camp, where iron manacles hung from a log lashed high between trees.